Beyond Revanche, page 13
Assistant Prefect Guichard looked contemptuously in their direction and sneered. “Well, he’s coming with me. Right now. Immediately.” The commander didn’t even blink.
Raoul Villain did not know whether to object or go quietly, but was glad that the interrogation had been interrupted. He needed more time to think.
“You. Out,” was Guichard’s two word instruction to him. “And I’ll take your notes on the interrogation. This is politically sensitive. The minister will want to read these.” He scooped up all of the paperwork. “Whatever has been said in this room falls under privileged information, and must not be subject to further discussion.” He turned on Bernard Roux and scowled. “I will be in touch in the morning.”
“Very good, Sir.” Each word was punctuated with an implied insolence. There was no likelihood that the chief would allow himself to be patronized. He, too, knew people in high places. The door slammed shut, and the Tigers sat in silence. Rank would hold its sway.
“Damnation, we almost had him.” Roux kicked the wall behind him in exasperation. “Look everyone, I know it’s late but spend the next ten minutes putting every word you can remember on paper. Legally, we are allowed to keep our own records.”
“No need,” said Mathieu, picking up his own very detailed notes from under the table. “He said, and I clearly heard him, that he wanted all the notes on the table. Mine were on my knee. It’s how I take notes. They fell to the floor when I stood up.”
“Tut tut.” Bernard Roux smiled.
“He didn’t ask for these, either.” Guy Simon took a pair of nickel-plated revolvers from behind his back. “I, ehm, was examining evidence when we were interrupted. This one, the Smith and Wesson, has been fired twice.”
The guns were placed on the table for all to see. Pascal picked one up as if it was delicate crystal. “Look at the butt. He has carved the letter C into its surface.” He checked the second. It, too, had been marked, this time with a J.
“Jesus Christ?” asked Mathieu.
Roux shook his head. “Try Jaurès and Caillaux.”
“Jaurès and Caillaux. Member of Action française. Has lots of money, but doesn’t know how much. The bloody suit was from Hermes. And he did it alone? No way.” Pascal’s frustration was clear.
Bernard Roux agreed. “We will have to get to the bottom of this immediately. Time is the enemy.”
The door crashed open again and a gendarme interrupted in a much more respectful manner. “Excuse me, chief. You have an urgent call from a Lieutenant Dubois.”
“Merde. Zaharoff.” Bernard Roux almost ran to the telephone. “Dubois, what’s happened? Has Zaharoff been shot, too?”
“Chief? This is bizarre. Twenty minutes ago a squadron from Army Headquarters appeared out of the dusk and surrounded the building. I went out to ask what they were doing and was promptly arrested. ME! Arrested! We were ordered to leave the car at gunpoint. Gunpoint.”
Paul Dubois was clearly upset. “I tried to show them my police credentials. Not interested. Then more armed men arrived. Looked like a special team. They overpowered the valet at the door. He put up a fair struggle and about a minute later they were back outside. The avenue has been cordoned off. Residents have been told to stay inside. What the hell is going on?”
“Calm down, Dubois. Take a long slow look at everything around you and phone me back in five minutes.”
“We’ve been ordered out,” Dubois spluttered.
Roux put down the phone and took a moment to think. The others had followed him into the corridor for enlightenment.
“Zaharoff’s residence has been surrounded by a squad from Army HQ. Why?”
“Tip off? He’s a target for the left-wing. And now they know that Jaurès has been assassinated.” Pascal tried to put together pieces of this complex jigsaw puzzle.
“Why is this foreigner so important that the prime minister makes him a member of the Legion d’Honneur, Grand Croix, no less, and then decides that he has to have more personal protection than any other citizen in France?”
Mathieu knew. “It’s war, my friends. And he is the merchant of death. Citizen Zaharoff.”
“No one’s put a bullet in his head, then.” Pascal was tired of the nonsense.
“Dubois will not be pleased,” Guy Simon guessed.
“Oh, he isn’t. I forgot to say, they arrested him.” The commander was beginning to appreciate the humor in the occasion.
“What for?” Pascal Girard was incredulous.
“Being Dubois?”
“Fair enough.”
They trooped out, tired and in need of sustenance. Bar Clichy would still be open at this time of night. They deserved a drink.
“Chief, a moment, please.” Mathieu was examining the Smith and Wesson, mindful that it had been handed to him in the dark. “Guy says it has been fired twice, and so it has. But I’ve a problem with that.”
“Yes?”
“Villain, or whatever his real name is, fired three shots.”
Raoul’s Story
The Loyal Son of France
Anxiety raised its ugly fears and swam in the darkness of doubt. Every night. I began to hate the night. It was a time ill at ease with itself so that thoughts took free reign and refused to be called to heel. So much to remember. So many instructions on what not to do. And doubt is a subtle enemy. It requires no reason or proof. What if they let me down? What if I’m left high and dry, alone? What if I cannot do this? Why, in the middle of the night, do we revisit old doubts? Before, I was certain. Afterwards…
The police were nasty. Trying to trip me up. Trying to put words in my mouth. So sly. Insisting that I was instructed to kill Jaurès. That is a lie. I said I would kill him, and Caillaux, and I am half way there. One out of two. The man who led the rebellion against a three year military service, the man who voted against our president going to Russia last week, Herr Jaurès, is dead.
And I have a new friend. Such a surprise. When the assistant prefect climbed into the back of the police van and instructed the others to leave us alone, I thought he was going to beat me to death. But no. He leaned into me and whispered, “Did you give them any names? Charles needs to know.”
Charles? He knew Charles. He had links to Charles…Assistant Prefect Guichard was one of US! Who would have thought?
“Nnnno, no. Nnno names. I’ve told them nothing.” I was shaking. Must have been the heat.
“Good.” He patted me on the shoulder. “Take me through your instructions.”
“No names. Did it myself.”
“Right?” He wanted to hear more. “What about the clothes and the money?”
This worried me. “They’ve asked awkward questions about the money.”
“Say you found the money in the street and you were going to hand it in but spent a little on some new clothes. Don’t worry. You are protected. You have many friends, and they are already very pleased with you.”
He took me by the shoulders and looked directly into my eyes. That confused me. I didn’t know whether he was going to throttle me or kiss both my cheeks.
“You did it. You took out Jaurès. Do you have any idea how jubilant they are in the Ministry? In the president’s office? In the prime minister’s? In the Russian embassy? You have dared to remove, by clinical means, the one remaining obstacle to war. You. Raoul Villain, the hero. All of France will soon know who you are.”
I hadn’t thought of that. All of France? Including my father?
“Do you think that you could warn my father before he reads about this in the papers. He gets very anxious at times, and I think he will be angry if I don’t warn him. He lives in Reims.”
“Yes, yes. I’ll see to it later tonight. But first you have to listen to me very carefully. You will be interrogated by a commissioner. Not one of us, so you must say nothing. And when I say nothing, I mean nothing. Answer no questions. If they ask you your name. Nothing. If they raise any of the points that were discussed tonight, say nothing. Understand?”
“I think so.”
“Look. It is very simple. Act dumb. Recognize no one. Give the court reason to believe that you are a complete simpleton. All of your records have been altered. School, army, college, work, visits abroad, everything. You will say nothing. If it appears that your advocate is making a fool of you, forget it. We are all part of the same team. To save you, we can call on hundreds of loyal citizens who will swear blind that you are not in control of your senses.
That wasn’t much consolation. What did it mean, not in control of my senses? Why should a hero be protected by lies?
“But…”
“Charles says that if you stray form the chosen path, all will be lost. Are you the savior of France or just a wastrel?”
“No, Charles knows I am a loyal son of France.”
“Then you must act like one.”
“I will.”
I promised…and I did. The police wagon stopped on a corner and the assistant prefect took his leave with a stiff salute in my direction. His grim face had lost all personality. He had turned back into a pillar of society. I was passed on to another officer, rougher and less educated. The assistant prefect never spoke to me again. He died at Verdun, I was later informed.
11
August 1, 1914 – Unanswered Questions
A false dawn broke over Paris that Saturday morning. Mathieu slept fitfully in the wake of the late night tragedy, saddened more than angry. He rose wondering if he had slept at all. Yet another cloudless sky promised opportunities to come, but he knew that darker horizons swirled in the stratosphere. The streets were almost empty. A pretense of calm rested over the city after a night of miserable tension. The world seemed to hold its breath. The birds had not risen to announce the day. Perhaps they knew that peace was an illusion; that this new day held no promise.
First into the office, Mathieu took the opportunity to review the notes from the previous evening. What worried him most was a feeling that the facts had already been compromised. The assistant prefect’s sudden arrival had taken everyone by surprise; everyone save the commander.
It was evident now that Roux had rushed to interrogate Villain because he knew that other government agents would react fast. Fresh reports had been compiled during the night and left on the commander’s desk. Such rapid intelligence smelled of careful preparation. Villain was a member of Action française. Mathieu had assumed that. One source claimed that he was also a member of the Camelots du Roi, the thugs who organized mob violence in Paris. Hardly likely. He had given himself up too easily. Army records all stamped and dated showed that he had been discharged from the 94th infantry in Bar-le-Duc in 1907, and a police file recorded that before his military service he was considered a very serious young man. Villain had been educated by the Jesuits. His school diploma ranked him in the top twenty students out of forty-four. He had visited London, Athens, and Ephesus in the Ottoman Empire. He had lived in Paris for the last four years. Where? It didn’t say. His source of income? Nothing. So Raoul Villain was well educated, well-travelled, and of religious disposition. One report inferred that Raoul Villain was an imbecile, slow of mind, enfeebled. Interesting. When was that profile concocted? No date. No signature. But Mathieu recognized the quality of the paper. He felt its smoothness. Was this from the prime minister’s office, the War Office, or Quai d’Orsay? Nothing made sense. New clothes, two revolvers, cash in his pocket. Villain could not have been acting on his own. Mathieu studied his notes again. The final lines read:
“They didn’t tell me what to do? I did it myself.”
prompted – “I don’t know names…”
Villain’s version of events in Montmartre was not credible. He was not alone. Never.
Mathieu was summoned to the phone downstairs by the duty officer. “It’s the boss. He’s at headquarters. Wants to speak to you.”
“Chief?” He was puzzled.
“Sous-lieutenant Bertrand, I require your attendance here immediately.” His voice was strangely officious.
“At HQ?”
“Yes. And bring all the notes you made last night. All of them. Is that clear, Bertrand? Problems.”
Something was up. Roux’s final word was almost a whisper. The charade of apparent anger was no more than playacting. Someone else was in that room. Someone else was listening. Mathieu could sense trouble.
Bernard Roux stood at the entrance to the prefecture in Isle de la Cite, agitated, despite the Gauloises—clearly unhappy. The sentries in their guard boxes hardly glanced in his direction. Why provoke a prowling senior officer? Flicking his cigarette stub to the ground, he pushed Mathieu back into the taxi as soon as it arrived so that no one outside could hear.
“General Messimy knows that I colluded in withholding evidence. I don’t know how. Celestin Hennion also knows, but is on our side. Something ugly is happening, but do NOT contradict Messimy. Remember who he is. Oh, and that asshole Guichard is upstairs, too, trying to look important. Humor him.”
So the minister of war and the prefect of police were waiting along with Assistant Prefect Guichard, whose instructions he had chosen to ignore. Felt like judge, jury, and firing squad had gathered for some live sport. Mathieu found it difficult to keep pace with Roux as they climbed the elegant Louis-Napoleon stairs. If he was dismissed, there would be plenty of vacancies in the army soon. He tried to console himself, but there was little joy in his strained black humor.
They were ushered into the luxury of nineteenth century imperial France. The second floor reception room was more of a grand hall than an office. It boasted vast, mirrored, and finely papered walls with luscious purple drapes which reflected the excesses of that time. At the far end, close to a marble fireplace, a huddle of high-level influence listened carefully to instructions. Before them on a lacquered table lay an array of plans which were being shoved around the flawless surface.
“For that reason,” the larger central figure spoke not to his comrades, but to the room, “we have to remain one step ahead. Communication centers have to be policed. I want subtlety, not brute force. Unity is the order of the day. Keep promoting the president’s new mantra. This is a sacred union of all Frenchmen forged to protect France.”
Bernard Roux and Mathieu stood in silence until the prefect of police realized that his men were present.
“Ah, commander, and this is Sous-lieutenant Mathieu Bertrand, formerly of Marseilles, I understand.” He beckoned me forward as if I was being presented at the Royal Court.
“May I introduce General Adolphe Messimy, minister of war, a gentleman whose immense importance in this moment of national crisis cannot be overstated.”
The general turned his attention towards the policeman as if he was inspecting an errant corporal from his own regiment. Formally dressed, with high collared shirt and deep blue tie, he looked more like a bank manager than minister of war. A shiny black bowler hat sat on the table, upturned, with leather gloves peering over the edges. Sparse hair failed to cover a wide dome which had not required a comb for many years. His half-moon glasses stared over a good sized nose, but there was a sparkle in his eyes which defied his apparent abruptness. His huge handle-bar moustache had been carefully waxed that morning but would likely require further attention as the day progressed. Military men never consider themselves out of uniform even when dressed in a morning suit.
“Citizen Bertrand, you appear to have become quite a personality in a very short time. First you arrest Henriette Caillaux, and then you apprehend the assassin Raoul Villain. One such foray into the limelight ought to have been sufficient. Two in five months is immoderate.” He enjoyed his own witticism. “You have brought us a missing document, I understand.” His hand extended to accept the file. “What compelled you to disobey Assistant Prefect Guichard’s instruction?”
“Stupidity, Sir.” He held the general’s eye and then looked down, submissively.
“Ah,” Messimy almost smiled, “I see a great deal of that all around me, every day, present company excluded, of course.” He read Mathieu’s scribblings in silence.
“You have underlined the words ‘I don’t know names’ several times. Why?”
Silence.
From nowhere, Mathieu heard himself say, “I was unconvinced by the prisoner’s ramblings, Sir.”
The General paused briefly and smiled. “Excellent, perfectly excellent. Well done, young man.” Messimy snapped shut the file and nodded his dismissal. He turned to Hennion.
“Yes, Celestin, that one has a future.”
“Sir?” Assistant Prefect Guichard failed to grasp the general’s conclusion.
“Did you not hear? He says that Villain was rambling. Of course he was. Off his head. No inference of others involved. The officer has clearly informed us that Raoul Villain was rambling. Mad as a lunatic in the Bicêtre asylum. Probably end up there. Thank you, gentlemen. That is reassuring. Brings closure to any further consideration of the matter.”
The assistant prefect glared in Mathieu’s direction like a hawk whose prey had scurried down a rabbit hole. Too bad. The judge, having misconstrued the evidence, had declared Mathieu’s innocence. The jury concurred and the firing squad stood down, disappointed, and marched into the velvet curtains. As Mathieu and the commander reached the gilded door, General Messimy had an afterthought. He fixed a warning in Mathieu’s direction.
“A moment, young man. This is no place for disobedience. Especially now. Disobey me, and I will have you shot; and if it is for stupidity, I’ll shoot you myself.”
Roux picked up his pace as they descended the staircase, urging Mathieu to move faster. His body language said only one thing. Gauloises. Now.
“You know I didn’t mean…” Mathieu got no further.
“I know. Of course you didn’t mean to infer what the general has said. But believe me it would have been a stroke of genius if you had. The powers that be want this to go away, at least for the moment, and now that you have corroborated their version of events, it will.”
